It was 2 o'clock in the afternoon and 30 degrees out, and I was standing on Market Street in St. Louis in my underwear, next to a guy dressed as Braveheart, without a shirt but with face paint (blue) and sword (foam). I waved my arms around, trying to stay warm but trying not to hit anybody with the cupid's bow and arrow I was holding. Then the starter, such as she was, cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, "Go!" and everybody started running, except for me, because Braveheart decided to rally the 300 nearly naked people behind us by waving his sword, which whacked me hard in the face. He took off. I grabbed at my nose, swore, hitched up my red boxer briefs, and chased after him.
I had gotten into this, as I usually do, without much thought. With a weekend free, I cast about for a race and came across the 4th Annual Cupid's Undie Run, a national fund-raiser for the Children's Tumor Foundation, which is devoted to fighting neurofibromatosis (NF), an extremely unpleasant genetic disorder. Having run countless marathons, half-marathons, 10-Ks, and 10-milers, a "mileish" run in my underwear on a cold winter's day seemed like it would be, at least, a significant change of pace.
And that, according to race cofounder Bobby Gill, was the entire point. On New Year's Eve 2009, Bobby was talking with his friends Chad Leathers and Brendan Hanrahan about doing something for Chad's younger brother, who was afflicted with NF. All three were runners, so they thought of a fund-raising race, but then said to each other, "Why do another 5-K? Nobody remembers a 5-K!" and came upon the idea of running a mile in their underwear. They needed a holiday to link it to...MLK Day? No, not quite right. Valentine's Day? Great! So: red underwear.
Bobby told me they expected about 50 of their friends to show up that first time in Washington, strip to their skivvies, and then do a guerrilla sprint on the sidewalks circling the Capitol. But word spread around the D.C. running community, and on February 13, 2010, more than 600 people swarmed Capitol Hill, a mass of jiggling, goose-pimpled bare flesh, raising $10,000 for the foundation. Four Valentine's Days later, in February 2013, the race was held in 17 U.S. cities, plus Sydney, Australia, with thousands of participants trying to reach a $1 million goal.
Like a lot of self-serious runners, I secretly sniff at "charity runners" as people who can't qualify for a demanding race, or who need to sign up with some slick Team In Training-type training program rather than grinding out the miles on their own, as God intended. But if I was going to raise money, even for a lark, then damn it all, I would raise some money. I started tweeting out appeals for donations, offering to post pictures of myself running in only my underwear when I met my $1,000 goal, and then, when that goal was quickly reached, I offered to not post the pics if my next goal of $2,000 was met.
Over the course of my single week of fund-raising, I began tracking the thermometer-style money graph on my fund-raising site like it was an indicator of my value as a human being. In response to many lewd suggestions as to what underwear I should wear, I offered the choice of wardrobe to anyone who donated $500...and was amazed, and more than a little worried, when somebody took me up on it. But I put my qualms aside. I was raising money! Lots of it! Anything to make that needle move!
Health & Injuries when I walked into Syberg's bar in St. Louis on the Saturday of the race, and not just because of what I was wearing (and not wearing) under my sweats. The place was packed with people, mostly young, mostly drinking, and mostly naked. Very few of them—by my informal survey—had ever run a race before of any kind. Most of them had no knowledge of or interest in NF but had shown up, from what I could tell, just because drinking beer and running around in their underwear in public on a Saturday afternoon "sounded like fun." So, as it turns out, there are hobbies stranger than running.
There were some older folk, though, and although they seemed to be grinning as much as anyone else, they were there for a more serious purpose. Every person I spoke to over the age of 35, including Heather, the race director, was there because of a direct connection to a child suffering from NF. Heather's daughter, Nicole, has NF, and Nicole's great uncle brought a whole running team from his workplace. And one of those runners, in turn, brought a young spectator named Lexi—also an NF patient—shy and pale but delighted to be surrounded by so much determined love. Lexi's friend told me that the company where they all worked was suspicious and worried about this "undie" thing and insisted they run clothed, which is why they were wearing their unmentionables over tights and T-shirts. She seemed regretful.
And me? Having stripped off my sweats, I was standing talking to her in the outfit decreed by my $500 donor: a pair of red boxer briefs with the words knickers of glory written on the butt; red feathered wings; cupid's bow and arrow; and a heart shaved into my chest hair. I envied the utility worker in her tights. At that point, I would have been willing to trade places with a Muslim woman in a burka.
I had a drink. I would have had more, but naked and shivering and shaved and drunk seemed one adjective too far. So I shuffled outside and waited with the crowd, most of them much younger and much more attractive than me, although few of them were more naked. The race started. I got hit in the face with a foam sword. Then I whooped and ran.
At first I gave in to my usual misguided instincts and tried to keep up with the leaders, a few skinny guys who hadn't laden themselves with props. But after a hundred yards, I actually said out loud, "What am I doing?" and slowed down, then circled back to join the vast unclothed masses. This was supposed to be fun. And today, there was no fun in me being out in front...especially for the people right behind me.
The turnaround point was at the top of a slight hill, and before we reached it, a lot of the cuties in their undies were walking, due to either too little training or too much alcohol. They were all still laughing, however, and so was I. I had never been in an event like this; hardly dressed, hardly running, in what was hardly a race. But then I decided to get to the finish line to watch people as they came in, so I sprinted the last few hundred yards. Somebody shouted out, "Not fair! He's got wings!" I jumped to make them flap.
At the finish, people laughed and hollered and cheered as they completed their mile run as if they had just won the Olympic Marathon. They hugged their friends, an act more sweaty and intimate than usual, and everybody immediately retired into the bar for more beer. There, the organizers quieted the DJ and took over the bar's PA system. They announced best costume—some 20-year-old in something revealing—and then they announced the event's big winner, the top individual fund-raiser.
more photos of Cupids Undie Run.
My wheedling, my begging, my bargaining, my offers to wear whatever ridiculous thing my big donors suggested had brought in $4,000 for the Children's Tumor Foundation, and I accepted my medal (in the shape of underwear, of course) with a huge grin. It was the first time I'd ever won a race, of any kind, by any measure. And it struck me, as I grinned and grinned, standing in my underwear in front of a crowd, that I had picked a great one to win. I've run thousands of miles for myself, and one, just one lousy mile, up a hill and back, for some sick kids I had never met. And at that moment, it seemed to be the only mile I've ever run that's mattered.
See more photos of Cupid's Undie Run.
